


your arms, they keep me steady

by nightbloods



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 5.17, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s05e17 Kapiushon, Tag Fic, a lot of feelings, like a lot, that good good trope where she bandages his wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 05:32:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13757334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloods/pseuds/nightbloods
Summary: He isn’t dead. That’s what her mind fixates on; he’s alive. After six days of absolutely nothing, he’s standing in front of her looking a lot like he might collapse any minute now, but he’s breathing.//or, that missing scene where felicity bandages oliver's wounds after chase lets him go.





	your arms, they keep me steady

**Author's Note:**

> long time, no see. i had a big au project that was supposed to be my comeback to ao3 after the year and a half i've vanished for, but then this little tag fic popped into my head. it's a year late and no one asked, but here it is. 
> 
> also, it's worth noting that i haven't seen this episode since last summer- this was written so quickly that i didn't go back and watch it again. so if there are any inconsistencies, blame my faulty memory.
> 
> title is taken from yours by ella henderson, poem is from detail of the woods by richard siken.

_ “i turned my back on the story. a sense of superiority. _

_ everything casts a shadow.  _

_ your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.” _ _  
_ _ (richard siken) _

  
  


The knot in Felicity’s stomach does not ease as she watches Oliver limp across the quiet bunker. She feels almost like she might pass out, lightheaded and reeling from a very specific kind of whiplash that, in truth, she should have expected. 

 

He isn’t dead. That’s what her mind fixates on; he’s alive. After six days of absolutely nothing, he’s standing in front of her looking a lot like he might collapse any minute now, but he’s breathing.

 

This isn’t the first time he’s come back from the dead, not even the first time Felicity has been there to witness firsthand, but the panic never gets any less intense. The past days, knowing he was somewhere out there but never knowing what kept him away or if he would ever be back, Felicity had worked herself to the bone in her efforts to find him. The helpless, desperate feeling in her chest is only quieted for a moment when she sees him: even with all of her work, nothing she did brought her any closer to helping him. He made it back on his own. 

 

It’s pointless now, but a wave of guilt- not the first since he disappeared- nearly knocks her to her knees. Keeping him safe, that’s her job. She failed him this time. 

 

And then there’s the issue of when she does see him. For a split second, she thinks it’s a trick of the light. It’s been six days, nearly an entire week since he disappeared without any warning, without any clues as to where he could be except the pit in her stomach that let her know Adrian Chase was behind it. Some distant part of Felicity’s mind hears herself say his name, some strangled and desperate sound that rips out of her throat before she can stop it. Something metallic clatters to the floor and he limps into the bunker, unannounced and looking smaller than she’s ever seen him. Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow, back from the dead again. 

 

She wants to run to him. Every instinct in her body tells her to cross the room, get her hands on him so she knows this is real and not some caffeine-induced, sleep-deprived hallucination. Put her skin on his skin and take inventory of that body that she knows like the back of her hand until she is absolutely sure that it is her Oliver standing there because the look in his eyes is something she doesn’t recognize. 

 

Except, he’s not  _ her _ Oliver anymore. She is not allowed the comfort that would come with that kind of physicality, so she stops herself just steps away from him. John tells him to go slow and she’s reminded that there are other people in the room; she isn’t the only one that’s spent days running herself dry to find him, she isn’t the only one who could’ve lost him. 

 

And then he’s speaking. Distantly, Felicity hears Chase’s name, hears Oliver say something about being let go. Her brain stalls, though, and she’ll blame it on the exhaustion later but in the moment there’s nothing she can do to tear her eyes away from his chest, naked and exposed and covered in new, open wounds. 

 

When he says it’s over, he’s done, that’s when his words finally filter into Felicity’s mind. She doesn’t know what to do with them, can’t wrap her mind around the weight of what he’s saying when every part of her mind and body is screaming at her, aching to be able to do  _ something.  _

 

After he’s said his piece, Oliver backs off the platform and the three of them watch him limp across the room, dazed and reeling. 

 

It’s quiet for a long beat, none of them knowing exactly what to do. Curtis is the first to break the silence, and Felicity doesn’t know what he says but the sound snaps her out of her haze. 

 

“I’ve got him,” she says, already moving to follow Oliver. John puts out an arm, letting his hand fall to her shoulder and stop her in place. 

 

“He’s been through a lot, Felicity,” John’s voice is tentative and strained, and Felicity is reminded all over again that she isn’t the only one desperate for some way to  _ fix  _ Oliver. Still, she understands what John is getting at and doesn’t make him say it. If anyone knows Oliver, is familiar with his lowest lows, it’s the two of them.

 

“He won’t hurt me,” she says firmly, without any bite to it. John is right to be concerned; they don’t know what Oliver has been through in the past several days, what mental state he might be in. Still, if she knows one thing for certain it’s that letting him out of her line of sight right now makes her stomach turn. Even if he’s only as far away as the other end of the bunker, having him out of arm’s reach is a thought she doesn’t want to entertain. 

 

They don’t know what Chase did to him, but the man she knows is still somewhere in there. Felicity has never doubted her safety around Oliver and she isn’t about to start now. 

 

John gives her a nod of understanding, knowing her well enough to know that trying to keep her from him is a losing fight. Felicity throws a few directives at Curtis- they still need to find Chase- and is off the platform in seconds. She can feel her friends’ eyes on her as the  _ click clack _ of her heels is the only noise filling the space. 

 

There is a room in the back of the bunker, tucked away in the corner. It’s small, sort of a really shitty, bare-bones version of an apartment, but there’s a shower and a cot and cabinet full of medical supplies; Felicity knows without having to watch that this is where Oliver would be headed. He may be broken and defeated, but he isn’t an idiot. His wounds are open and he has never had any qualms about stitching himself up. 

 

She finds him leaned against the sink and struggling to open a suture kit. His hands move slowly, but not in the practiced, deliberate way she’s seen so many times before; they’re sluggish and clumsy, tripping over the latch on the plastic case. 

 

“I’m fine, Felicity,” he says without warning and Felicity is unsurprised that he knew she was there without her having to announce it. His voice low and so hollow that her chest aches for him. It’s a dismissal and she knows it, but Felicity brushes it off with the practiced ease of someone that’s been dealing with this for years because, well, she has. 

 

In front of her now, toying with the kit in his hands and refusing to look at her, he looks a lot like the man he was when she met him; guarded and alone. 

 

She stood beside him then, when he was volatile and dangerously independent. She’ll be damned if she’s going to let him push her away now. 

 

“I thought you weren’t going to lie to me anymore,” she says softly, pushing off of the door frame and taking the suture kit out of his hands. He keeps his eyes down but recognition flashes on his face and his shoulders relax just a fraction. 

 

Whatever Chase did to him, it got in his head  _ bad _ . 

 

Felicity would put an arrow through the man herself if she could. 

 

There will be time to talk about that later, though; once Chase has been stopped in one way or another and their lives have calmed down again. And they  _ will _ stop him; whatever he’s done to convince Oliver that their efforts to save the city have to stop, they can move past it. If five years being dragged through all the hell that this world has to offer couldn’t destroy Oliver, she sure as hell is not going to let six days with a psychopath take him down. 

 

A part of her aches for him, for how much she knows he enjoyed life away from being the Arrow. Ever since Ivy Town, she has always known that one day he would step down from that role and he would be better for it. Images of that happy, carefree man he was then flash in her mind and the juxtaposition between that man and the one in front of her now nearly causes her knees to cave underneath her. A sudden swell of anger flares in her chest as she busies herself laying out the gauze and sutures she needs. 

 

When Oliver finally puts down the hood, it won’t be because of some terrible man pretending to be the biggest bad they’ve seen. It will be Oliver’s own decision. 

 

Felicity finds a clean washcloth in the cabinet and moves toward the sink, toward Oliver. He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge her proximity at all. He just stares at his hands, which are unsteady and shaking in a way that looks foreign on him. 

 

Without thought of what she would do if he were to resist her, Felicity reaches out slowly and lets her hand fall over his. He flinches but doesn’t pull away, and for that she’s thankful. 

  
“Oh, Oliver,” his name slips out of her mouth on an exhale and the tense lines of his shoulders soften just barely, so she takes it as her opening to guide him around to sit on the cot in the corner. His steps drag and sway just a little, almost an entire week’s worth of exhaustion slowing him down, but he follows her willingly. 

 

Once she’s knelt down in front of him and he’s facing her head on, open and vulnerable, Felicity really gets a good look at the extent of his wounds and her stomach turns. There is a lot of blood; most of it is dried and glued to his skin, making the whole scene a lot more gruesome to look at than it should be. 

 

His Bratva tattoo is little more than a mess of marred flesh and by now, Felicity knows a burn when she sees one. This is the worst one she’s seen on him, every bit of skin where the star had been is stripped away and unrecognizable. She fights the urge to close her eyes against the memory of all the times she has traced over that tattoo with her fingertips, her mouth. It’s not that she’s ever cared about the Bratva or that Oliver’s connections to them could even be of any use to them anymore; it’s that the tattoo was a part of him.

 

The wound on his opposite shoulder is scarier; deep and still weeping. Felicity has seen a lot of wounds in the past five years, but none of them have looked anything like this one. She has no idea what weapon Chase could’ve used to cause it and that alone is enough to make her feel sick. 

 

When she finally looks up, Oliver is watching her with something like shame in his expression. Days and days of doing her best to hold herself steady come crashing into her and Felicity feels the tears well in her eyes, clouding her vision until the sight of him in front of her is swimming. 

 

“What did he do to you?” Her hand comes up to brush over the side of his face, all old habit and instinct. Oliver holds himself rigid and still for a moment before any energy he had devoted to resisting her is drained and he allows himself the comfort of leaning into her touch. Felicity’s heart swells; it isn’t surprising in the slightest that even now, he is still soaking up her affection in whatever form he can get it. That familiar pang of regret over how things turned out between them, how things between them are still turning out, hits her squarely in the gut and nearly knocks the breath out of her. 

 

Oliver doesn’t answer her question, just takes a deep, shaky breath, turns his face further into her hand and closes his eyes. 

 

Felicity knows him, knows that this vulnerability might not still be there in the morning when he has the energy to wall himself away again, but she also knows that now is not the time to press him for information. For now, all she can do is care for the physical wounds and offer whatever comfort he is willing to take. So, slowly, she drags the wet washcloth over his face, clearing away days of dirt and sweat as best she can. He doesn’t flinch away and in that moment, every argument about trust between the two of them seems so futile, so entirely ridiculous that Felicity would laugh if not for everything else about the situation.

 

Here is Oliver, having just dragged himself back to her, beaten and broken at the hands of another person and still leaning into her touch like it could save him. Even with the state of their relationship, she is still the only person that he would let this close to him right now. She is the only person that  _ can _ be there for him. 

 

Dragging the washcloth down his neck and across his shoulder, Felicity makes quick work of the blood smeared across his skin. She knows without looking up that he’s watching her now, can feel his eyes on her hands as they move across his chest. 

 

It’s intimate, she won’t deny that, but most anything between them is. There comes a point, she thinks to herself, when you know a person so completely that everything feels open and vulnerable. Oliver’s walls came down for her a long time ago, and they’ve never really gone back up. 

 

Under her hands, Oliver’s chest rises with another shaky breath and Felicity holds her own, waiting. When he speaks, it is so quiet she barely hears it. 

 

“He had your glasses,” his voice is impossibly low, strained in that way that lets her know he’s struggling with what he’s feeling, the desperation that’s clawing at all of his edges. Her hand freezes against his chest, coming to rest over a dark bruise on his ribs and she must press harder than she means to because he winces. The thought of Adrian Chase in her loft sends an uncomfortable chill down her spine, but it’s neither the first time she’s been tracked down and threatened by some crazed villain, nor is it anything she can deal with in this moment. She can replace the locks and ask John to help upgrade the security system later; for now, she can only deal with what is in front of her, what she can get her hands on, and that is Oliver and the way his hands are shaking again. 

 

“Hey,” she keeps her voice gentle and steady, bites back the shudder that’s still threatening to move through her body. When Oliver doesn’t look up, she hooks a finger under his chin and he lets her tilt his head up until he’s looking at her again. His expression is open and he makes no effort to hide anything from her, every bit of desperation, fear, and defeat laid out for her to see. 

 

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she says softly, leaving no room for argument. Her fingers scrub across his cheek and through his beard, a habitual ministration that usually calms him but does little to quell the panic in his eyes now. “We’re not going to let him,” she continues. “You have always protected me, Oliver.”

 

His shoulders slump then, the panic easing back into defeat. Felicity knows that the conversation is far from over, but they’re both too raw for it right now. Oliver’s voice is so excruciatingly tired when he speaks again, several minutes after Felicity has gone back to cleaning him up, after she’s bandaged and stitched him up as well as the past five years have taught her to, after she’s tugged off his boots like a child and eased him back onto the cot to rest. 

 

“I’m not the man that you think I am,” he says, quiet still, while Felicity is gathering the mess of medical supplies she’s strewn across the room. It is a simple statement, one that begs no argument. She doesn’t know what he means by it, and when she turns to question him his eyes are already closed, the pain meds finally taking effect and letting him sleep. 

 

She doesn’t know what Chase convinced him of, and Felicity doubts she’ll know anytime soon what exactly happened in the days Oliver was missing, but he’s alive and safe for now and so she lets that be enough. When she’s sure his breathing has evened out, has counted the seconds between the rise and fall of his chest enough times to ease her mind, she leaves him there. This isn’t her place, not anymore, and she knows that if she’s there when he wakes she might not ever be able to walk away again. So, she tells John how he is and promises to be back tomorrow.

  
The last thing she does before she leaves the bunker is gather up Oliver’s quiver and arrows from where he dropped them and set them back in their place next to his work bench. He may not want them today, or tomorrow, or for a while, but he  _ will  _ need them again. Whatever Chase did to him, they’ll overcome it. There isn’t an ounce of her that doubts that. 

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: Igbtsmoak  
> tumblr: endlessummerafternoons


End file.
